


practicality

by mutalune



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), GO Holiday Gift Exchange, GO Holiday Gift Exchange 2019, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, goodomensholidayswap, half of this is from aziraphale's POV and the other half is from crowley's, i think this is soft but there is that implied-torture tag so uh, naughty angels get locked in aziraphale's shop, nice demons are given wing pets and cuddles, nothing graphic i promise just implied stuff, semi-soft fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutalune/pseuds/mutalune
Summary: Crowley is taken by Heaven - Aziraphale gets him back.“You know,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not enjoying this, Gabriel. We could skip all of this unpleasantness. I don’t particularly want to continue, as this is rather… distasteful.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 487
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	practicality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PepperVL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL/gifts).



> hey all! i've been super MIA because of life being kinda cruddy right now. BUT it's the holiday season and i do love christmas cookies and all the goodies, so i've emerged just long enough for that and to give my gift for the GO holiday gift exchange! (goodomensholidayswap on tumblr if you'd like to check on it!) 
> 
> So happy holidays to Nessa! <3 i know Nessa from the gift exchange and also the GO's big bang, and she's a delight. I hope you enjoy your gift!

“You know,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not enjoying this, Gabriel. We could skip all of this unpleasantness. I don’t particularly _want_ to continue, as this is rather… distasteful.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Gabriel snaps. Aziraphale is rather displeased to see that the scrape on his face reopened in the middle of his sentence, but he refrains from healing it this time. It’s been opened and closed and opened and closed a couple dozen times, what with the way Gabriel thrashes around. “A bull in a China shop,” isn’t a saying that was created with Gabriel in mind, but it’s fitting nonetheless. 

Blood cuts a path down the side of his face, and Aziraphale looks away. Healing it again would be crueler, at this point. “It’s not too late for this to end peacefully.” 

“Do you really think that Heaven will forgive you for this? That this is anything more than the prelude to your fall?” 

Aziraphale pretends he hasn’t thought the same thing at least a dozen times since capturing his superior officer. He pretends that he hadn’t winced and braced for impact when a certain teenager and his dog agreed to help him - and that he hadn’t breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened. 

He pretends that he believes it - pretends to have the courage of disillusioned, once-God-fearing philosophers when he says, “Heaven may not forgive me, but God will. She is all-knowing, after all. If I haven’t fallen yet, don’t you think there’s a reason for that?” 

Gabriel reels back as much as he can. Considering his wrists are encased in heavy manacles, his torso more or less pinned to the wall behind him, it’s impressive how he manages to recoil so. 

Aziraphale continues, “A reason, surely, that is too ineffable for us to understand. Really, I’m only doing what’s just - and God must agree with me.” 

“She wouldn’t,” Gabriel says lowly. “She doesn’t.” 

“Doesn’t She?” Aziraphale shrugs. “God loves all of Her creations. Is it fair of us to dictate who is deserving of that love?” 

Gabriel opens his mouth to respond, but Aziraphale steps forward to steal his mouth again. It’s easier to take the apparatus away completely than it is to cover it - duct tape wasn’t lasting long enough, and he can still thrash and make noises with a gag. A quick brush of fingers against his bottom lip, and Aziraphale smooths it away. 

Mouthless and therefore voiceless, Gabriel slumps in his restraints. A pitiful sight that, had Gabriel’s transgressions been less heinous, Aziraphale would cringe from. 

He says, sympathetically, “You know how to get my attention if you change your mind.” 

He raises his right hand and has to close his eyes against the way Gabriel’s face, even with half of its features missing, twists in fear. The lights disappear as he snaps, letting black swallow them whole. 

What Gabriel doesn’t know is that Aziraphale never leaves at this point. It’s been weeks since their horrific game has begun - a blink of an eye, in the grand scheme of things, but the queasiness that accompanies what must be done has yet to abate. It’s easy to miracle his eyes with night vision, regardless of how deep underground they are, how impenetrable the darkness is. With that sight, Aziraphale sees the way Gabriel starts to flail and thrash and, had he the ability to, he would surely be moaning and caterwauling. After seeing his fear once, Aziraphale can’t bear to leave him alone. 

Even if Gabriel never knows that Aziraphale is there, doing his best to support while cruelly tearing him down, it makes Aziraphale feel better. 

His panic starts sooner every time. He lasted three days the first time - he prayed nonverbally, through tapping the wall with what little slack his chains provided. The second, he broke just shy of a day. Since then, he can barely last more than an hour or two before he’s kicking out and ringing the bell Aziraphale had placed just within reach. 

It doesn’t make Aziraphale feel good to watch Gabriel lose hope. It makes him feel absolutely wretched, if he’s being honest with himself. It reminds him of a competition he and Crowley had back in the noughties, in which Crowley was to bring a man to God and Aziraphale was to tear another man’s religion from him. The quiet devastation on his man’s face when Aziraphale implied God has never cared, never would even if She had the capacity - the taste of victory was never sweet enough to cover the memory, and his look haunts Aziraphale. 

Now it appears he’ll have Gabriel’s version of the same to keep him up at night. 

Aziraphale forces himself to remember Crowley, though. His best friend - his partner, dare he say it? A tad presumptuous, perhaps, but Aziraphale hoards the word regardless. He thinks of Crowley, the demon who was too nice, who cared too much, who gave himself up to save Aziraphale from Heaven’s wrath. 

Crowley, who Aziraphale would stop at nothing to get back. The distance between them - Aziraphale on Earth, Crowley locked up somewhere higher and likely being tormented - is unbearable. Aziraphale can’t live like this, and he imagines (hopes) that Crowley can’t either. 

So, instead of dwelling on his guilt and shame and the paralyzing thought of what God might do to him for daring to shackle an archangel - Aziraphale quietly takes a seat, barely a meter away from Gabriel, and he pulls out the newspaper he’s been slowly working his way through. Before Gabriel’s last break, he had nearly finished the sudoku for the week. 

He gets halfway through the crossword (12 across, 5 letters: compassion for the unfortunate) when Gabriel curls in on himself and kicks out. His toes barely graze the bell, but it rings clearly regardless. 

Aziraphale puts the paper off to the side and makes sure Gabriel won’t see that or his chair. Once they’re sufficiently hidden, he stands, lets his footsteps echo against the floor, and snaps the lights back on. As always, Gabriel has a moment of looking disoriented before it’s abruptly eclipsed by relief. A bone-deep, weary relief. 

He gives him his mouth back, as well. For once, Gabriel is quiet. 

Aziraphale says, quietly, “Gabriel. Please. Tell the others to release him and I’ll release you.” 

It’s silent. Aziraphale tucks his hands behind his back and waits. 

Gabriel, at last, asks, “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“The - the dark. It’s not just dark. It’s - “ Aziraphale is uncomfortably fascinated by the way Gabriel’s throat bobs. “There’s nothing. There’s no light, there’s no Light, there’s no God - how do you do it?” 

It sounds like quite the trick. The truth, though, is simple. 

Humans - clever, terrible things they are - long ago learned some interesting, horrible ways to go against God and Heaven. For millennia, ever since the beginning, there have been people researching topics they shouldn’t. At the top of the short list of non-demonic individuals who abhor the holy are, of course, witches. Witches with their ceaseless curiosity, with their need to poke and prod and know - while not all witches dabble in taboo subjects, there are more than enough for Aziraphale to use as resources. 

Anathema is a witch. One who rarely touches on anything blasphemous or terrible, but one with contacts. Contacts who had contacts in turn, and those were who Aziraphale reached out to. 

With the help of these contacts, the ex-antichrist, and a bit of Crowley-inspired creativity, Aziraphale was able to render Gabriel functionally human. 

Occasionally, over these few weeks, Aziraphale has wondered what could possibly allow him to fall if God has yet to punish him for his actions. Kidnapping and physically coercing Gabriel is one thing, but the preparation for the chambers he’s created are downright sacrilegious

Gabriel hasn’t been taken from God’s light - there are some lines Aziraphale won’t cross (though not nearly as many as one would expect of an angel) - he just no longer has the capacity to perceive it. His powers, his grace, his miracles - they still are within Gabriel. 

He just cannot reach it. As long as he is in this room, Gabriel is as human as an angel could be. 

Aziraphale doesn’t say this. With a shameful, savage pleasure, he says, “I haven’t done anything. She’s still with us, as always.” 

He pauses, cocks his head to the side in faux-bewilderment. At Gabriel’s increasingly wide-eyed stare, he tenderly asks, “Gabriel, are you saying you can no longer feel Her?” 

It is achingly sweet to hear Gabriel’s breath hitch and know that he has won. 

Not even three hours later, Crowley walks through the bookstore as Gabriel walks out. Their shoulders brush - they both flinch. 

Aziraphale says, cheerily, “Come back any time!” 

He sees Gabriel’s shoulders tense, and he knows the message - that Aziraphale will do this all over again, to anyone, if he has to - has been received. Without the bell on the door, it shuts quietly behind the troubled, pensive archangel. 

That taken care of, Aziraphale focuses on what’s really important. 

Crowley - his kind, sweet demon - looks exhausted. His sunglasses are nowhere to be seen, he somehow looks thinner than before he left, and his hair - normally a vibrant shade reminiscent of fallen autumn leaves - is matted with what must be blood. He doesn’t have any _shoes_ , the poor dear. 

After a few moments of silence, during which Aziraphale listens carefully for any wings or signs of sudden retaliation, Crowley says, hoarsely, “What happened? How’d you - ?” 

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale bursts out, rushing forward. He takes Crowley’s hands in his own and frets. “I was so worried - and you’re freezing! Are you alright?” 

He tries futilely to warm him up just by squeezing and rubbing his hands - a silly, human gesture, but Aziraphale quite likes the physicality of it when he had been afraid he would never be able to see-touch-hold Crowley ever again. A few moments too late, he realizes Crowley never answered him. 

He looks up and sees Crowley looking at him strangely. His head is cocked to the side, and his eyes - yellow as daffodils and sunflowers and dandelions - are fixed on Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale wonders what Crowley sees there. If there’s some visible mark reflecting the lengths he’s gone to and the depths he’s reached since Crowley’s disappearance. He smiles nervously and says, “Crowley?” 

Crowley mumbles, “Gabriel was pretty spooked, wasn’t he?” Before Aziraphale can formulate a response, Crowley shakes his head. Grins wide, and says, “Maybe you’re a bit more of a bastard than I thought.” 

Aziraphale says, affronted, “Well really now!” 

“It’s a good thing, angel. Means I’m glad you’re on my side.” 

“Our side,” Aziraphale reminds him primly. “Now, tea?” 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

“Of course - “ 

“No, really.” Crowley twists so he’s holding Aziraphale’s hands, and he brings them to his lips for the softest kiss. “Thank you, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale, with the same savage pleasure he felt earlier, says, “Anything for you, my dear.” 

  
**  
  


Now, in a particularly sappy movie, the credits would’ve rolled then. Nothing more to be said, the happy ending implied, and no further trouble on the horizon. Here they would fade to black, so to speak. 

Considering movies also have an overabundance of uncomfortable sex scenes and stupid dialogue, Crowley tends to prefer reality even with the awkward inconveniences. The pain’s not ideal - whoever made fluffy white wings and red-cheeked grins the angelic stereotype had clearly never seen Michael with diluted holy water, that’s for sure - but the silver screen wouldn’t be able to catch the way Aziraphale bounces on the balls of his feet while waiting for the kettle to finish, and they would have written out any scene that contained Aziraphale’s quiet humming as “boring” and “unnecessary to the plot.” 

No, Crowley much prefers being able to take in the small details that films skim over. Even with his head aching, even with the bone-deep exhaustion from too many “discussions” with Sandalphon, even with the stinging cuts on the sensitive insole of his feet - it’s worth it, really. 

Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t kill for some miracled healing, but his gas tank’s empty and Aziraphale’s holiness won’t feel too great on his battered, decidedly unholy body. It’s looking like he’ll have to take the long road, which has never been his preference. 

Aziraphale appears with a steaming mug, interrupting Crowley’s introspection. Its unceremoniously plopped into Crowley’s hands, just warm enough to sting his cold fingers. It’s chamomile - Crowley has hated chamomile tea since it was first invented, but Aziraphale insists that its “soothing” properties make up for its boring flavor and refuses to brew anything else after dinner. 

“If Sandalphon’s holy waterboarding didn’t kill me, I doubt some caffeine’s gonna do the job,” He mutters. At the very least, the warmth leeching into his hands is welcome. He hunches over it, trying not to shiver. 

He clearly fails, as Aziraphale ignores his complaints and instead asks, “Are you cold? I’ll get some blankets - I think I still have that electric blanket you kept here last winter. That should do the trick.” 

“No, tea’s enough right now.” 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s an opening for a familiar argument - one that Crowley latches onto gratefully. “Yes, Aziraphale - I have no desire to be rolled up like a burrito, which you try to do every time there’s so much as a bit of snow - “ 

“You’re a snake!” Aziraphale retorts. “Snakes don’t exactly do well in snow, now do they?” 

“I’m a demon! We’re created by hellfire - “ 

“Which I’m sure Sandalphon and Michael were trying to extinguish - “ 

“And I have more than enough power to not freeze.” 

Aziraphale huffs loudly. “Oh, you stubborn - If you say so. We shouldn’t argue when you just got back.” He pauses. Suddenly, his face looks exceptionally pained. He asks, hesitantly and reluctantly, “Do you want to - er, I mean, if you’d like to discuss - ?” 

Crowley puts him out of his misery and says, “I’d rather die than talk about it, thanks.” 

The relief on Aziraphale’s face is, if nothing else, hilarious. Humans’ habit of repressing and avoiding issues can almost definitively be traced back to Adam (the original Adam, not ex-antichrist Adam), who, if Crowley remembers right, had more than a few conversations with Aziraphale near the outer gates of Eden. Much easier to hit things with a sword, isn’t it? 

Or, in Aziraphale’s case, to beat the crap out of Gabriel until the angel played ball and gave him his pet demon back. Well, his partner, but to Heaven the two terms are interchangeable where a demon’s concerned.

It’s not as if it’s news to him that angels are less warm-and-fuzzies than humans have portrayed them, but it’s strangely dissonant to realize that Aziraphale’s pragmatism in getting Crowley back is a distorted mirror image to the other angels’ torture. Aziraphale will likely never tell Crowley the details, but Gabriel’s fear was visceral and raw as he hurried out of the shop. 

That cold practicality is what makes Aziraphale such a valuable ally, but it’s Aziraphale’s kindness and love that makes him Crowley’s partner. 

Sure enough, even though Aziraphale would rather avoid the messiness of emotions, he says, “Well, sit down at least. Would you like me to take a look at your wings? I imagine they’re disheveled after your… adventure. And I know how you get when your feathers are in a twist.” 

It’s another return to normal - Aziraphale caring for Crowley and fussing over him, banishing the memory of Gabriel’s terror for later contemplation. Crowley, again, latches onto it with the ferocity of a starving man faced with a buffet. 

“How I get?” Crowley asks, offended. “What’s that s’posed to mean?” 

He startles when Aziraphale starts to push at him. The blasted angel keeps pushing him until he’s seated in a corner of the hideous brown sofa that hasn’t been in style since the ‘60s. The sofa, for the record, only appears when Aziraphale decides it should be there - Crowley had honestly thought Aziraphale was going to make him sit on the floor for a moment. 

Aziraphale shoves at Crowley until he’s facing an armrest so Aziraphale can sit down behind him and help him take his jacket off. “You’re rather fussy, is all - “

“ _I'm_ fussy? Me?” Crowley’s head spins to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “ _You’re_ calling _me_ fussy?” 

“Oh hush, you’re extremely fussy with your wings and you know it. If anyone was going to recognize fussy when they saw it, it would be me, after all.” 

“At least you’re aware, then. But I’m not fussy.” 

“Okay, dear. Budge up a bit - there we go.” 

Crowley sighs in frustration as Aziraphale pokes and prods and moves him around without so much as a “how you do” - the entitlement, the audacity of it all, really now - 

Then he sighs in relief when he releases his wings into their plane of existence, and Aziraphale’s hands are quickly running through them and tutting softly. His hands - thick fingers, baby soft skin - are warm and do more to remind him that he’s free once more than anything else today has. 

“They weren’t very kind to you, were they? Everything’s a mess back here.” 

Were he a little less relieved to be on Earth again, Crowley would’ve snapped back some kind of response like, “No, you think? I couldn’t tell.” Because he’s grateful and comfortable, though, he just says, “Yeah, wasn’t exactly a tea party up there. Can you start on the left? I have an itch there that’s just - “ Aziraphale’s hands move obligingly, and Crowley feels himself go boneless with a pleasant sigh. “Yeah, there. Perfect.” 

He’s sure there’s debris back there, from when he was getting captured. He tries not to think about what his apartment must look like, as Uriel wasn’t exactly trying to keep things in order during the whole threatening-and-capturing bit. His feathers are ruffled - literally - and he hadn’t realized how much their disorganization was keeping him tense and uncomfortable. 

Aziraphale’s attentive care to each feather is a strange mixture of relaxing and embarrassing. Embarrassment in the same way people feel when they get compliments from an unexpected source - the intensity of Aziraphale’s focus, the silence that belies his concentration, is flattering and flustering in equal turns. At the same time, he can’t stop from relaxing. 

Each stroke releases just a bit of tension - his toes curl and quickly relax, his shoulders tighten and loosen, his neck droops down - and one-by-one, each feather caressed erases a smidge of Heaven’s cruel touch until Crowley finds himself slumping back into Aziraphale’s grip. Aziraphale doesn’t stop - one arm wraps around Crowley’s waist and lets his head rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder, while the other one continues with what he can reach from that position. 

It could be minutes or hours later when Aziraphale removes his hands with a pleased hum. He wraps that arm around Crowley too, finally, and squeezes him lightly. 

“Better?” 

Crowley hums back an affirmative, drowsy and half-asleep. He curls in a little bit tighter and is happy to note that Aziraphale tightens his grip in response. 

“Next time, let me handle Heaven - yes?” 

“W’t’ever,” Crowley grumbles. “Lemme nap.” 

“Fine, fine.” 

This, Crowley thinks, is a much better place to have a fade to black. The movies wouldn’t care for something this soft - not after all the action was said and done, not after the darkness they both had to wade their way through to get to this point - but he sure does. It’s easy, then, to drift off to Aziraphale’s reassuring grip and soft warmth. 


End file.
